The Imperishable Flame
by Virodeil
Summary: For Teitho May 2010. History always repeats itself, in big matters as well as small ones. But it is not always akin to the adage "Even donkeys never fall into the same hole twice." Something good can come out of it, sometimes.


Author: AiedailWing

Title: The Imperishable Flame

Rating: PG/K+

Beta-reader: Firefly07 (Thanks!)

Credit: Philosopher at Large's "The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script: A Boy, a Girl, and a Dog." (Thanks!)

Dedication: For mothers all over the world, especially those who have to work hard/leave their families in order to protect/provide for them. (All right, a bit patriotic and making chance of the event: Especially for Indonesian mothers who are doing so here, fighting against poverty… and many more. Little chance you read this, great women, but my thoughts are with you.)

Summary: History always repeats itself, in big matters as well as small ones. But it is not always akin to the adage "Even donkeys never fall into the same hole twice." Something good can come out of it, sometimes.

The sky is overcast.

But of course. Nowadays it is always that way. The land, as if mirroring it, has withered slowly but surely too, until it leaves us no choice but to abandon it. And the *forest north of our settlement has been turned into a horrible place ever since the Sudden Flames.

Curse Morgoth.

And thrice accursed be his foul darkness, now.

I stare at my husband, trying to blink back tears, swallowing my turbulent emotions. Barahir is taking everything calmly; too calmly. But come to think of it again, everyone is, including myself. I swallow again. I must be brave, for them all. I have always been, so far, so why not now?

For my son, for the children.

My eyes stray to Barahir's side. Beren is standing there, fidgeting, but our inhibition is not his. He is weeping silently, and looking at me with such raw love and pride and longing that I come closer to weeping myself. I want to take him into my arms and never let go, and just refrain myself from doing so in the last moment.

I am doing this for them all.

But every time I chant it in my head, trying to convince myself, a pang of pain shoots into my heart, until it feels raw and torn.

Little Morwen is tugging at my hand. Littler Rían berates her promptly. Their fathers, Balagund and Beregund, laugh at their antics – mirthlessly, with a hint of desperate choking somewhere within. I fight from grimacing. It is no use snarling at Barahir or his cousins, when I should aim my wrath at the dark monster haunting us.

I release my hand gently from Morwen and put it on Barahir's shoulder; soon the other joins the first, on another shoulder. I stare deep into his sombre grey eyes and hold my breath. I am many things to him, just as he is many things to me: I am his **steward, wife, confidant, peer, companion, and sometimes even a mothering presence when the burden grows too heavy on his shoulders. This farewell holds too much weight in it to be spoken just by a few words.

And I have a feeling, almost of a certainty, that we will never meet again in this mortal world. I will never lie in bed in his arms; berate him for cursing in front of our son, fuss about his eating too little, and many more. He is a steady presence in my life, anchoring my more ***hot-headed temperament with his cool calculation and composure.

I want to make him smile, this last time, with inner mirth that brings delightful light into his eyes, but I cannot: I do not know how to anymore. The situation is too grim for me to feel even the slightest amusement over the fact that ****he is a head shorter than I am. (It usually gave me at least a twinge whenever I was aware of it, which was not often, given my busy routine.) But I do not want my memory of our parting stained by this… this…

"Storm is brewing, my dear," he murmurs. I jerk straighter, losing my grip on his shoulders at the same time. I look up, and send some more mental curses Thangorodrim's way. Menacing rumbles can be heard from up above, from the quickly darkening sky, and it seems to have been going on for some moments. I have been too absorbed in memory. Acknowledging my slip of attention, I smile weakly at him, conveying my apology. After all, he is my lord, not only my husband.

Avoiding his penetrating gaze, I shift to the side, to my only child. This time, it is Beren who grasps my shoulders, although I would guess it is not a convenient posture for him to keep. But I let him, and instead return the gesture. His shoulders tense, and he hunches forward as if wanting to melt into my embrace, like he usually did in his childhood.

Well, it seems that he has not grown out of it, as he so many times tried to show.

My fondness of the recollection is tainted by apprehension and bitterness, an almost-certain knowledge that I will not see him again. Curse Morgoth, thrice and more.

I fold him into my arms, and he melts like butter on a hot knife, even going so far as encircling my torso in a tight hug. In a blink, he is no longer the young hunter and warrior that I have come to respect and feel proud of, but my baby son.

"Beren," I whisper his name, as reverently as I do the names of the Valar and Maiar whom we pray to. A broken sob is torn from his lips. And I find salty tears on mine. We have taken each other's presence in our lives for granted.

No word passes between us, but we understand each other perfectly.

Then it is time to return my attention to Barahir, to give him a last farewell – and perhaps a formal parting.

But again, words I should have uttered with ease are stuck in my clogged throat. I could only give him a wobbly curtsy, acknowledging him as Lord of Dorthonion, having fallen far out of my usual grace and eloquence. The pain in my heart grows more noticeable, especially as I am aware of similar last farewells exchanged around us. My chest constricts, making it worse. Not even the toughest is spared from some emotional turmoil, apparently.

This is a situation out of a nightmare.

And we cannot escape it.

Suddenly, Barahir gasps, much like when Beren sobbed, and pulls me down roughly to his height. I am too surprised to do anything, and before I know it, his lips are pressed hard against mine and our arms are intertwined around each other's bodies in a desperate embrace. He is crying. I am crying. And moments later Beren joins us both in arms and tears. We are one torn family; one from so many.

I let go first, the ambers of my defiance towards the Dark Power blazing forth into a steady flame. I smile fiercely at my husband and son, looking into their eyes, and I see the same fire ignited in their hearts.

Everything seems surreal. But it has been so thus far. It will not stop me. Nothing will. I will escort the elderly, women and children – those who would – past the mountains and into Dor-lómin.

"We shall meet again, bearers of my heart, in a place untainted by evil," I whisper to them. "Seek for my fire, then, for Morgoth's fell darkness will never quench it."

I turn around, gather all who would follow me, and never look back as I go on the fore of the procession up the mountain path. My heart feels like it is being wrenched from its place, and trying to escape its doom by pounding against my chest. I try to ignore it in favour of looking out for enemy spies.

It is time to show Morgoth that the golden hair of the House of Hador is not simply a head decoration. Come closer and be scorched…

Gilraen choked on her hysterical tears. A mad chuckle escaped her gasping mouth. She was clutching the back of a chair tightly. The news of Arathorn's death, as sudden as a lightning strike, had hit her much harder than she had thought; than she had prepared for. She knew that their marriage was bound to be short; her own mother had prophesised it, and there was a notorious record of Dúnedain chieftains dying young or gruesomely, given Sauron's hatred of Isildur and his line. But this…

And, with the news, came also the urgent plea from its bearers – Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond – for her to remove herself and her child into the safety of Imladris.

Her baby son, the fruit of her happy, hopeful marriage with Arathorn.

Torn now? When the Dúnedain needed her the most, when they needed to see Aragorn so that they had hope again?

Only son… Dúnedain…

"For you, Barahir," she whispered to the headrest of the chair.

"My lady?" A pair of startled voices broke her from her semi-hysteria. Gilraen jumped and whirled around, a hand automatically flying to the dagger belted to her hip.

The Half-Elven twins raised their hands in a gesture of surrender just as automatically. She chuckled weakly. She had forgotten that they were still in the room with her.

But there was an odd gleam in their eyes…

"Did you experience a vision, my lady?" one asked.

She shook her head, right as the image of a golden-haired and deep-blue-eyed woman flashed before her eyes, somehow elegant in her grimy clothing and feral in her weakness. A name popped into her mind at the same time.

Emeldir.

Aragorn ran pell-mell into the room and colliding with his mother's legs, shouting his anger at the adults who had told him that Ada was not coming back; never coming back again. The three previous occupants in the room snapped from their awkwardness and busied themselves trying to soothe the two-year-old with all they could. Or rather, the twins did. Gilraen just stared at her son clinging at her while at the same time fidgeting restlessly and wailing piteously.

"I will do it, for you, for them all," she whispered into the thin air. The twins gave her relieved looks. She received it graciously, but without a word.

The decision had been taken from her hand two ages ago.

Footnotes:

* The Nightshade, the forest burnt in Dagor Bragollach (the Battle of the Sudden Flames) and grown back into a forest of terror and dark enchantment: Taur-nu-fuin, Deldúwath.

** Borrowing a bit from the Script of the Lay by Philosopher at Large; the reference that Emeldir held command over the people when Barahir was away, especially during the Dagor Bragollach.

*** The Silmarillion says that the House of Hadar has a fiery spirit, great in stature and endurance. Emeldir comes from that House, although her husband comes from the House of Bëor.

**** Umm. Well. Great stature… Basically those blondies are the tallest among the Edain. So it is just natural that Emeldir is tall, taller than her husband. This I borrow from Philosopher at Large's story (or rather, a series of stories in the form of dramatic script) too. He (She?) has an excellent division for the three Houses of the Edain. Hadar's people are the tallest, Bëor's are so-so, and Halladin's the shortest.


End file.
